Feast of the Shamans
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Pre slash. Humor. If Shamans from all over the world think Jim Ellison's the best Sentinel ever, why is Incacha so ashamed of him? A prequel to The Sacred Coupling Thing.


THE FEAST OF THE SHAMANS

By Chapin CSI

Summary: Jim Ellison is the greatest sentinel ever. So, why is Incacha so ashamed?

This story was written for Mymongoose e-zine.

* * *

Night was falling in the Amazon jungle. Creatures of all kinds raised their voices, calling their mates and their offspring, pleading for their return. It was getting dark, and soon the creatures of the night would rise, making it too dangerous to be out and about.

Their cries reached the stone temple that rose in the middle of the jungle - the Temple of the Shamans.

A solitary man stood in its main platform, building a fire. When he heard the distant calls, he raised his face. It was Incacha, guardian of the Temple.

He smiled as he heard the raised voices. He loved them, the colorful creatures that inhabited the jungle.

As for the night creatures raising from their day-long repose, he wasn't afraid of them. As a spirit, he was in harmony with all living creatures -even the pesky mosquitoes that were biting his ankles at this very moment.

He grimaced as a new blister appeared on his skin, then shrugged it off in resignation. It was just one of the prices to pay for resuming one's former human form.

After a moment, Incacha turned his attention back to the fire, now roaring high. He closed his eyes and after clearing his throat a couple of times, intoned:

"Brothers… Brothers, hear me out…"

It was only a whisper, yet it immediately caused a stir. All creatures in the jungle paused and glanced around in confusion, as if the call had been meant for them. It wasn't, and they eventually went back to their daily routine, but Incacha kept uttering the message, hoping it would reach its destination.

He raised his arms and stared into the sky, in preparation for the second part of his call.

Incacha looked magnificent. He was wearing the native garments of his ancestors, those who had lived hundreds of years before the Spanish _conquistadores_ took over. Feathers, animal skins, rough sisal made up his outfit. It was uncomfortable and it itched in all the wrong places, but he wore it with pride.

"Brothers…" he whispered again, his words rising to the heavens above.

He was calling his fellow Shamans, powerful spirits like himself, who had spent a year away from the temple, doing various chores.

"Brothers, hear my call," Incacha whispered, "You, who have spent a year as humans to be near your Sentinels; you who breathed the same air and wore the same clothes… hear me out! It is time to return…"

He closed his eyes, "And you, who have lived as one with your animal spirits; you, who breathed the same air and wore the same skins and the same feathers… hear me out! It is time to return…"

He was about to turn away from the fire when he remembered he had something else to say.

"… And don't forget to bring the food!"

Standing at a respectful distance from the fire, Incacha waited.

Slowly, numerous shapes started to materialize around the fire. Some were clearly human, while others were more difficult to discern. There was one that was unmistakably animal -a lion, perhaps?- rebelling against the loss of control. After a couple of rebellious roars, however, the human inside won the battle.

Sometimes an animal spirit wanted to remain in control, and it was only after some cajoling that the Shaman was able to regain his human form -in this case, a Masai Shaman.

All the Shamans taking their rightful place around the fire were uttering words in their native tongues. Most were offering prayers to their gods, but others were whispering words of a more nature. Things like, 'uh, oh, I forgot I was to bring dessert!' were being heard all around the fire, causing a few of the Shamans to leave in a hurry in order to remedy the situation.

But they weren't gone for long; soon the group was complete, and each and everyone had something to offer: Loaves of bread still hot from the oven; bowls of recently-tossed salads; nicely broiled steaks; baskets of fresh fruit, and even expensive bottles of fine French wine.

Incacha glanced around in approval. The brothers had excelled themselves this year. Even thought they were spirits and didn't need the nourishment, it was decided that bringing food to their annual meetings would be a nice touch; a reminder of their human lives.

"Brothers," Incacha said, "We meet here after a year-long absence. Some of you communed with your animal spirits; some of you lived close to your Sentinels. We learned, we lived, and now -"

" -and now, we're hungry," a huge man in a fur coat finished gruffly.

"Brother Petrovitch," Incacha said with a smile, "How are you?"

"Hungry," the man said gruffly, "I've just said so."

"Yes," Incacha nodded, "Well, we'll leave the speeches for later. First, I'd like to -"

"First, I want to protest!" a man dressed in chic contemporary clothes said. Incacha immediately recognized him; the Shaman had spent a year living in Paris, watching over his Sentinel.

"Brother François, you may speak."

"Brother Petrovitch brought a roasted chicken -again!"

The other shamans glanced around and then smiled. Some held back snickers.

Incacha sighed.

"Brother, we've been over this before -"

"And the joke is getting old by now," interjected the Masai Shaman, "You shouldn't let it bother you anymore."

"But the sight of a roasted chicken is offensive to me!"

Petrovitch smiled innocently.

"But why, Brother?"

"Because it is my spirit!"

"But this is a roasted hen, not a rooster, Brother Chanticleer."

The French man flushed.

"My name's not Chanticleer -" he hissed, and he actually rose and took a couple of steps in Petrovitch's direction. The big man rose, too.

"Order!" Cried Incacha, quickly stepping in between, "Can't we behave like brothers?"

"That's exactly what we're doing," Petrovitch replied, "Acting like brothers. Little brothers."

"In that case," Incacha said, "As head of the family, I ask you to calm down. Otherwise, I'll summon my animal spirit's fury -"

François winced. Incacha's spirit was a condor. A vicious condor.

The chicken in him cowered.

"All right, all right," he muttered as he returned to his place in front of the fire, "I just expect to be treated with respect -"

"Granted." Incacha nodded.

"It's not my fault that my animal spirit is a chicken -"

"Be glad it's not a dodo," muttered an old man dressed in tattered clothes and feathers. He was the oldest Shaman.

Once order was restored, Incacha took his place around the fire. He turned to the man sitting next to him. Kuch'ink wore fur clothes like Petrovitch but he was smaller. Long ago, he had lived in the cold regions of Alaska.

"Brother Kuch'ink, would you please pass the bread?"

Kuch'ink, who was still a bit dazed after his year-long communion with his animal spirit, stood, caught the bread between his feet and started waddling towards the next Shaman.

The others watched in astonishment.

"Ew!" said one.

"I'm not eating that!" said another.

"Brother," Incacha said, "What are you doing?"

"Uh?" Kuch'ink blinked. He noticed that the others were looking at his feet. "Oh. Oh, sorry," he said, picking up the loaf with both hands and offering it to Petrovitch, who hesitated before taking it.

Kuch'ink sat down again. When he noticed that the others were still looking at him, he shrugged.

"Hey, my spirit's an Emperor penguin. I've just spent a full winter taking care of an egg, ok? It's not easy to resume a human behavior!"

"Ah, yes...!" said one Shaman, "The Emperor penguin! I saw the movie!" then he muttered under his breath, "Thank God he didn't try to feed us the same way a penguin feeds its chicks!"

"It's all right, Kuch'ink," Petrovitch said kindly, breaking a piece of bread and passing the loaf to the next shaman, "An Emperor penguin's a creature of great distinction. It's not like your spirit's a chicken -"

"Petrovitch," Incacha said, a warning in his tone.

"All right," the big man muttered meekly. Even with a bear as his animal spirit, Petrovitch knew better than to defy Incacha's condor.

François passed the bottle of wine around, and soon the men were enjoying the feast.

Towards the end, the old Shaman with the dodo animal spirit addressed the group.

"It is time for us to share what we learned this past year," he said solemnly, "Time to find out how your Sentinels are doing."

He was the only one who didn't have a Sentinel anymore. They were all extinct.

A Shaman raised his hand.

"My Sentinel is working for the good of the republic," he announced.

Fortunately for him, no one pointed out that only a few years back his Sentinel had been working for the good of the king.

"And you, Brother Petrovitch? How is your Sentinel doing in Siberia?"

"Suffering," Petrovitch said bitterly. "Surviving. While others -" He pointedly looked at François. Barely repressing a malicious smile, Petrovitch said, "Tell us about your Sentinel, Brother Chanti -I mean, Brother François. Are he and his guide still working for the _parfumerie_?"

Petrovitch sat back and enjoyed the effect of his question. Everybody knew that the French Sentinel hadn't fought crime in years; instead, he'd been using his senses to develop perfumes for Dior.

François didn't appreciate the reminder.

"They need a steady income," he mumbled uncomfortably. He turned to the man sitting next to him, "Tells about your Sentinel, Brother."

One by one, the Shamans got their chance to talk about their Sentinels' exploits, but there was little they could say, really. The truth was, the world had turned into a hard place for Sentinels.

That's why some of the Shamans had spent a year living as humans; to better understand the pressures their Sentinels faced. Kuch'ink, for instance, had come to terms with the fact that his Sentinel alone could not battle the big fur and fishing industries by himself. He needed help.

There was one Sentinel, however, who didn't seem to need any help.

Jim Ellison.

There was no one like Jim Ellison, working in the great city of Cascade. Not only was Ellison a great defender of justice, his animal spirit was a jaguar -a panther, no less. As Incacha never ceased to point out, very few Sentinels had had this honor bestowed on them.

Incacha was understandably proud of Ellison's achievements; unfortunately, sometimes he couldn't help to brag about them.

More unfortunately yet, Incacha's brothers didn't appreciate this. In fact, it irked them to hear so many things said about the Sentinel from Cascade.

Incacha, blissfully unaware of this, happily raised his hand. "As for my Sentinel," he said, (since nobody had asked), "He continues to do great work for the City of Cascade. Last year, he captured three female assassins-for-hire. The first tried to kill the Major, the second went after the Chief of Police, while the third -"

"Hmm," a Shaman snorted. Half-turning to the next Shaman, he whispered, "And I bet those assassins were all beautiful, with blue eyes, full lips and long, curly hair -"

"-and he fell in love with them," finished the other.

"He, he, he! Story of his life, huh?"

Oblivious to this exchange, Incacha continued, his chest swelling in pride.

"He also captured four members of the Cascade cartel," he said, "And he stopped a deadly plan to poison half-the population of the Little Spain district -"

Petrovitch started to cough. He covered his mouth, not out of courtesy but to keep Incacha from hearing what he was mumbling to the Shaman sitting next to him.

"COUGH -wonder how many times Ellison dropped his gun while doing all that? COUGH, COUGH!"

The other Shaman stifled a chuckle.

While an oblivious Incacha gushed over his Sentinel's accomplishments, the other Shamans continued their snide comments. This happened every year. They were spirits, yes, but they still had strong bonds with the living. They couldn't help being subject to petty feelings like jealousy and envy.

They'd kept their irritation under wraps for years, but tonight there was one who, emboldened by years of frustration (and the excellent wine he'd been sampling), did the unthinkable.

Incredibly, it was François.

"I'd like to ask a question," he said, cutting into Incacha's account, "Is Jim Ellison still wearing those ridiculous white socks?"

"Er..." Incacha hesitated, "I believe so, yes."

"H'm!" Francois snorted noisily.

There were a few covert snickers all around.

Incacha directed a disdainful glance at François.

"I suppose Jim Ellison isn't as stylish as your perfume-sniffing chicken," he sneered.

François flushed but didn't reply. There was no use in arguing with the truth; his perfume-sniffing chicken WAS more stylish than Ellison.

"Anyway," Incacha said, "My Sentinel of the Great City maintained his high standards this past year. He was voted Cop of the Year for the sixth year in a row. He didn't destroy his truck, thus managing to keep his insurance premiums low. Oh, and he kept his ears wax-free, too."

By now it was clear, even to Incacha, that he'd ran out of positive things to say about Jim Ellison.

"But enough of my Sentinel," Incacha said generously. "Let us hear about the labors of others." He turned to Kuch'ink. "Tell us about your Sentinel, brother. I heard he joined the whalers this year."

"He has got to feed his people," Kuch'ink replied uncomfortably.

"But isn't it illegal? I thought -"

"Excuse me, Brother Incacha," The Masai Shaman cut in, "I have a question about Jim Ellison." He waited until Incacha gestured him to go ahead, "Has your Sentinel finally made a move on his guide?"

Incacha groaned inwardly. He was hoping no one would ask that.

"Well -" he cleared his throat, "Hum -" he glanced around and noticed that everybody was staring at him. "Define 'move'," he muttered feebly.

"You mean he hasn't started courting his guide yet?" another Shaman asked, his eyes open wide in astonishment.

Incacha's head dropped in shame.

The reaction was immediate. Suddenly, everybody had something to say.

"I can't believe it!"

"It's been eight years! What is he waiting for?"

"Sacrebleu!" cried François in full-French mode, "C'est incroyable!! Even mon petit poulet has had better sense than that!"

"Even _my_ Sentinel managed to lure his guide," exclaimed Kuch'ink. "And he's not handsome, as you all know. Tanak was covered with bits of whale blubber and seal guts when he made a pass at Mam'uk, yet he succeeded," he said smugly, "Repeatedly."

Petrovitch raised a hand.

"Is he still falling for women who closely resemble his guide?"

"It happened only once this year -" Incacha mumbled, and these words brought him more criticism.

"Gee, Incacha," sneered one, "What is wrong with your Sentinel?"

"Ellison and Sandburg are destined to be together -" the Masai pointed out.

"I know," Incacha nodded humbly.

"His colleagues at the precinct know," Kuch'ink said, "His neighbors know. Even the big man with the cigar knows!"

"_Everybody_ knows!" nodded another.

"Everybody but Jim Ellison himself -" chuckled a Chinese Shaman.

"How difficult can it be?" the Masai asked, glancing around, "I mean, they live together; it's not like Ellison has to walk miles and miles to be with his guide -"

The old man with the dodo feathers was shaking his head.

"I am afraid you were lax in your teachings, Incacha -"

"I was not!" Incacha cried indignantly.

"Well, then _somebody_ failed to tell Jim Ellison that a Sentinel must become one with his guide in order to reach true harmony," Petrovitch said pointedly, "Since you haven't been able to do so -"

"I've tried!" Incacha said defensively, "Believe me, I have! I've been entering his thoughts at midnight for years; I've been telling him what needs to be done -"

"And?"

"He dismisses every message of mine as the product of indigestion brought in by those Wonder Burgers he eats when his guide isn't looking!"

Incacha sank back in defeat, "I'm at my wits' end!" he admitted dejectedly.

The Shamans looked at one other and then at Incacha. They'd enjoyed taunting him with Jim Ellison's shortcomings, but their sense of triumph was short-lived; seeing Incacha like this didn't make them happy. After all, one Shaman's failure was everybody else's failure.

François patted Incacha's back.

"There, there," he said sympathetically, "We understand -right brothers?"

Kuch'ink nodded.

"We can only point them the way -"

"But it's up to them to follow," finished another.

"Still… It's been eight years…" muttered another.

"He's the greatest Sentinel ever -" Incacha said, trying to put up a defense.

"…That's a long, long, time -"

"There has never been anybody like him before-" Incacha continued.

"A truly long, loooog time -"

"He's just afraid of rejection -" Incacha finished lamely.

"Then maybe Tanak and Mam'uk should talk to him," Kuch'ink suggested, "Give him some pointers -"

"Sentinels aren't supposed to know of each other's existence," pointed somebody else.

"But this is an emergency situation," replied another. "Can't we break the rules for once?"

This started a heated discussion among the Shamans, and for once Incacha didn't intervene.

He wasn't even listening.

He was feverishly making plans of his own -plans that didn't include giving pointers or even talking.

The truth was, Incacha had reached the end of his tether. He made a decision right then and there:

From now on, there would be no more friendly messages for Jim Ellison. No more gentle pleading in the middle of the night, no more fatherly advice. Oh, no. From now on, Incacha would be adamant.

He'd conjure up his animal spirit if necessary!

Incacha smiled wickedly.

'Ah, yes,' he thought, "The condor will see to it that the panther listens…'

Soon, Jim Ellison would realize that talking about love to one's guide wasn't nearly as scary as facing an enraged condor.

Or a disgraced Shaman.

* * *

THE END 


End file.
